She leaned over the edge into Maria’s bunk. “Are you awake? We must be close.”
“Yes.” Maria’s voice was small. “Go and see if we’ve arrived.”
Francesca scrambled down the ladder at the foot of her bunk, fully clothed, boots laced. She didn’t dare wear a nightdress to sleep, to put herself in a more vulnerable position than she already was. Most of the other passengers did the same—guarded their belongings, slept in their day dresses, prepared, even in slumber, to fight for what was theirs.
The corridors were crowded and dank, but everyone was abuzz with excitement. They’d arrived, or nearly! America was in sight!
When she finally made it on deck, she peered out across the ocean. In the distance, a dark strip of land rose from the sea. America. She’d soon be in her new home! She smiled as she turned her face to the sky. For only the second time during the voyage, the sun parted the curtain of clouds and burned off the misty gloom. Placid argent waters lapped against the hull of the ship. She watched the horizon grow nearer, inured to the garlicky scent of body odor around her and the push and pull of those seeking the ship’s railing. Soon, they would be ashore amid the bustle of New York City, and the first order of business, after the doctor, would be to find a job.
She’d heard America had more jobs than people. She couldn’t imagine such a thing as she looked out over the sea of faces on deck, but she hoped it was true. Perhaps she and Maria could clean houses or work for a tailor or, if they had to, take a position in a factory. She cursed her poor English and her terrible attitude those years Sister Alberta had pushed her to practice. Her mind didn’t bend to her studies the way she wanted it to, or perhaps it was a lack of patience. Instead, she had memorized the soft skin of a ripe tomato, the weight of a knife in her hand as she chopped bright herbs from Alberta’s garden or peeled the bumpy skin of a lemon. She felt most like herself in the kitchen.
Francesca scanned the passengers crammed on deck. The few women aboard wore embroidered aprons and headscarves, or jackets and gored skirts. The men’s dress ranged from morning coats and derby hats or skullcaps to native dress of black pants, wide cloth belts, and colorful tunics. She couldn’t imagine how such a vast variety of people could live in harmony. This America must be as great as everyone claimed it to be.
Another cheer erupted as a crew member snaked through the crowd. He stepped atop a crate and put a speaking trumpet to his lips. “Attention! Everyone! Attention!”
He continued his announcement, and though Francesca could scarcely make out a word, she listened intently. At last, she understood “third class and below” and something about pushing and being tossed overboard. As a few laughs rippled through the crowd, she bit her lip in frustration. She had to practice her English.
The crew member did a short wave and stepped down from his perch. Passengers cheered again, a few launching their hats into the air. The noise drew the attention of a second-class passenger, who appeared at the tiered railing above, and with a shout of “Tallyho!” the man dropped an orange and a few coppers. As the coins and fruit tumbled through the air, several people shoved each other, crying out, and leaped after the prize. Two more gentlemen joined the man at the railing and they, too, released coins. More passengers dove into the melee. Soon, much of steerage pushed and laughed and lunged for the prizes. The energy was infectious; all were happy the journey was coming to an end.
Francesca backed away from the tangle of bodies until she felt the cool steel railing at her back. Hand on her plain straw hat, she peered up at the men dressed in fine wool suits who had started the wrestling pit in the first place. They laughed and pointed at those making fools of themselves. One man’s waste was another man’s luxury, she thought, but none of it was worth a black eye.
Yearning for her first view of New York, she clutched the railing as the steamship chugged ahead at full speed. When at last the boat nosed into New York Harbor, she searched the horizon, seeking the beacon of welcome she’d longed to see since first setting sail. And there she was. Lady Liberty perched on her pedestal in a majestic pose, hailing newcomers to her shores. An American flag writhed in the icy wind beside her. Beyond, an eternal sweep of buildings crowded the shore. Barges, tugboats, and steamers cruised into the harbor from every direction, the sheer number boggling Francesca’s mind. She wondered where they had come from, if they transported people or goods, or if they had traveled as far as she had. She smiled for the second time that day. New York appeared impossibly grand and modern, so unlike her tiny, sea-scrubbed home, and she could hardly wait to explore it.
The noise onboard grew deafening as passengers cheered and sang, tears flowing down their cheeks. All hoped for more than the life they had left behind, and why shouldn’t they want more? Hope swept through her. She’d left the pain behind, too, and now she had nothing but a grand adventure before her, a new life. It would all work out, somehow. She knew it would.
She pushed through the thick crowd, stepping on toes and dodging elbows in her side, and headed to her cabin to prepare for arrival. Maria lay in bed still, but her eyes were open.
“Are we there?”
Francesca nodded. “We’ll be docking soon. I know you’re weak, but we’ll have to pretend you’re healthy. We don’t want them to turn us away.”
Saying the words aloud set a school of minnows loose in her stomach. If they were denied entry into the country… She couldn’t go back to her father’s house, no matter what happened.
Maria rubbed her dark eyes and rolled into a sitting position. “Help me with my hair?”
Francesca combed through the snarls in her sister’s dark hair, fluffed it into a Gibson Girl style with a knot on the top of her head, and pinned on a straw shepherdess hat that had seen its better days. She studied her work. While Maria’s hair was neat, her eyes shined with fever, and rather than having her normal olive tone, her skin had a sickly gray pallor. It was the best Francesca could do.
“You’ll have to put on the show of your life,” she said softly. “For us.”